


Get You Breathing

by Zee (orphan_account)



Series: Weekenders [6]
Category: Bandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-25
Updated: 2007-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-10 16:08:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Zee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dude, it's like they're little ducklings that imprinted on you and Bryar," Joe says.  "Fucking mother hens, both of you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get You Breathing

Bob always has something in his mouth, Patrick's noticed. The minute he gets behind the wheel of the van for their patrol he has a cigarette dangling between his lips, craning his neck to light it before he even starts the ignition. He burns through it slowly, taking small shallow drags and tapping the ash out the window as they search for something to fight. When he finishes smoking he pops open a can of Coke, or a traveler mug of coffee, or just a bottle of water. He'll sometimes find a pen to play with in the glove compartment, twirling it between his fingers like a drumstick before sticking it in his mouth, chewing on the end or tapping it against his lip while he and Patrick talk. Patrick doubts he's even aware of what he's doing.

A few weeks after Patrick and Bob met, they figured out that Patrick had seen Bob play in a jazz quartet in Chicago five years ago. "That was you?" Patrick had said, incredulous as Bob hid a pleased smile by turning away. "Man, my dad loved you guys! He took me to see you, like, at least three different times my sophomore year."

"No shit?" Bob had said. "I had no idea that group had an actual fan out there somewhere. We were just trying to get paid for fucking around badly with standards."

But they had been really good, Patrick remembers, even if the only venues Patrick had seen them at were churches and the kind of music clubs that people like Patrick's dad felt comfortable in. Patrick remembers the drum solos, remembers how talented Bob had been.

Patrick's dad took Patrick to jazz and classical concerts all the time during high school, refusing to let Patrick limit himself when all he wanted to do was hole up in his room and listen to the Sex Pistols or The Descendents or, well, Arma Angelus. Any knowledge about music that Patrick has that isn't mostly bullshit, he most likely got from his dad. These days, Patrick can't miss music without missing him--he'd kept sporadically in touch with his parents when they hunted in Chicago, trying to keep one foot on the edge of normal while he risked his life every night following Pete, but there hadn't been any time to let them know anything or say goodbye before Patrick had to flee for New Jersey. 

A month after he got here, Patrick had mailed a postcard letting them know that he was alive, he was okay, he missed them and they needed to move out to the country because it was too dangerous to live close to Chicago right now. He doesn't think they'll take his advice seriously, but he doesn't trust himself to actually call them and explain just how fucked everything has become--it might be too hard to keep himself from going straight back home once he hung up.

Bob's folks are also in Chicago, Patrick is pretty sure, and it's never going to stop feeling strange and somehow warm that Bob is from the same city. Like Patrick and Pete and Joe and Andy had to steal themselves to leave it all behind, only to come across the country and find that it's impossible to make a complete clean break.

Not that Bob ever talks about his own family much--none of them do. Pete has told Patrick that sometimes he pretends that they're all a big group of orphans in Neverland, the Lost Boys. Patrick told him that that's creepy, he wants nothing to do with Michael Jackson, and also that Peter Pan never grew up because he was magic, not because he could suck blood, so Pete should stop over-identifying.

"It's fucking freezing, what the fuck" Patrick says, rubbing his gloved hands up and down over his arms as he stares out the van window. "We're in March! It should be spring!"

"Not technically. It's not the twenty-first yet," Bob says. He's wearing fingerless gloves that Patrick is fairly certain belong to Frank.

"It should at least start feeling close to spring, then," Patrick mutters, and Bob shoots him an amused look.

They're at the outskirts of town, close to the highway, when Patrick sees it. "Bob--" he starts, but Bob is flooring it already, and the van engine roars when they screech to a halt in front of the scene, the headlights flooding the fight with light and making the vampires snarl and stumble back. There are eight of them and five humans--Patrick notices a sixth bleeding on the ground, motionless. The humans have been struggling, but they don't have any weapons that Patrick can see.

Patrick and Bob jump out of the van, Bob rushing to the back and Patrick moving forward to yank a girl away from the vampire holding her by the neck. The vampire looks surprised for half a second, not expecting to have its prey snatched away, and Patrick uses the opportunity to get a stake into its heart. 

Two other vampires round on them, and Patrick can see the other humans trying to fend off the rest. "Get behind me," Patrick snaps, pulling the girl back when she tries to move forward to help one of the men. 

There's a click and a fwoosh and a roar, and then the vampires both scream as Bob turns the flame thrower on them. They keep screaming even as they stumble around burning, and when Patrick turns around to see Bob, Bob is looking at the machine in his hands with awe.

"Holy shit, this fucking *works,*" he says, surprised. "I didn't think Ray could really do it--"

"Bob!" The girl sobs out suddenly, and Bob looks up automatically but the girl isn't looking at him: she's wrenched her arm out of Patrick's grip and has flung herself to the ground next to the human on the ground, her hands going to his pulse.

Patrick feels his stomach lurch when he sees the way she's kneeling over someone who's either already dead or dying, but he hears yells and screams, and Bob can't flambé the rest of the monsters if the humans are in the way. Patrick moves and grabs the closest one, a skinny kid that yelps when Patrick drags him roughly away from the thing attacking him. The vampire goes for Patrick instead, but there's another lighter fluid roar and it combusts. They finish off the rest, and Patrick's skin feels hot and burnt. 

"Oh my god," he hears the girl say in a shuddery voice. The rest of her group are crowded around her now, and Patrick can see that her friend is clearly dead, eyes wide open and glassy and blood from a grisly wound on his throat drenching his neck and chest. "God, no, Bob, fuck, no--"

Tears streak her face and the face of the boy next to her, his hand squeezing her shoulder. Patrick feels awkward, like he's infringing on their grief, and Bob looks a little unnerved at a dead boy sharing his name. 

"Um," Patrick says eventually, and they all look up. "We should--we really need to go. There could be more of them, and you guys are injured--"

"Who are you?" one of the guys asks. He has a beard and sharp, angry eyes and he looks like he wants to still be fighting. "Why should we trust you two?"

"Uh, we just saved your life?" Bob says, incredulous, and Patrick hastens to add, "We've been fighting vampires around here for a while, we have a whole team, we have medical supplies. We can help you."

"Are you with Pete Wentz?" the girl asks suddenly, her voice clear and sharp, looking up and no longer weeping. "We're looking for him, we heard--do you know who he is, where we can find him?"

Patrick stares. "How do you know that name?" His mind races, going to worst-case scenarios immediately, these could be spies of William's somehow--

The girl trades looks with the bearded, belligerent guy. "You said you have medical supplies?" she says, and Patrick notices blood clumped in her blonde hair in addition to various wounds and bruises Patrick can see on her compatriots.

Patrick feels cold. He doesn't want to help them, not when he doesn't know who they are but _they_ know who _Pete_ is, he wants to just drive away, but Bob says, "Yeah, yeah we do. You can all fit in the van, and--" he hesitates, his eyes softening. "Bring him, too," he says, motioning to the body. "We can give him a proper burial."

They all start to get up, moving towards the van, but Patrick doesn't move. "How do you know that name?" he demands again of the girl. 

She meets his eyes, swallowing. "So you know him?"

"Fuck off and answer the question," Patrick says through gritted teeth, and Bob shoots him a surprised look.

"Patrick, come on, we've got to get them--"

"We're from Chicago," the girl says, finally. "We--we heard of him and what he was doing against the vampire gangs, and when he disappeared there was a rumor that he was headed to Jersey. To here." There's a pleading look in her eyes, and so much hope that it's hard for Patrick to look at her directly. "Is he with your team? Or do you have any--any news of him, even just rumors, _anything_ that could help us." Patrick follows her line of sight to where Bob and the bearded guy are lying her friend's body down in the back of the van and covering it with a tarp.

Patrick wants to know how the hell a rumor got around that they were coming here when they fled Chicago, and he wants to know if he can trust her enough to tell the truth. "I've heard of Wentz," he says, and out of the corner he can see Bob tense and look over at him. "I can tell you more, but you have to come with us."

The look she gives him is pure frustration, like she knows he's withholding information, but she stalks over to the van and climbs in with the rest of her little group. Patrick gets in the front and they pull away from the curb, from the blood on the ground.

The van is filled with tense and awkward silence as Bob speeds on the way back to the school, careening around curves and smoking as he drives, the smell of tobacco not strong enough to cancel out the stench of the body in the back. 

"So, my name's Bob," Bob says eventually, breaking the silence. "And this is Patrick," he adds, jabbing a thumb in Patrick's direction. "Now why don't you guys tell us who we've just rescued?"

They all trade looks, and there's nervous shifting and murmuring until the smallest boy speaks up. "I'm Chris," he says. "This is Darren, Tom, the Butcher--" the belligerent dude with the beard, and who the hell calls themselves The Butcher? "--and Greta." 

"Where are you taking us?" Greta says.

Bob and Patrick trade looks. It's a big fucking risk, taking them back to the school, but they pretty much have to: these guys probably have news from Chicago, from home, and they need stitching up. However, Patrick isn't planning on introducing them to Pete until he's good and ready, and he hopes that Bob gets that without Patrick having to say it. _Don't tell them about Pete_ , Patrick thinks at him as hard as he can, hoping that Bob spontaneously develops telepathy.

"We're taking you to our headquarters," Bob says. "You can stay with us for the night--it's not safe anywhere else in this town."

"Um, do you think I could bum a smoke?" One of the guys--Tom, Patrick thinks--says, eyeing Bob's pack of cigarettes hungrily. Bob nods and passes the pack and his lighter back, and speeds up; the rest of the ride passes in silence, and when they pull up at the school Patrick prays that Pete is out hunting or in Gerard's room, somewhere out of sight until Patrick can figure out why these people want to meet up with him so badly.

But Pete and Andy and Joe are loitering outside the doors to the gym when they drive up, and any hopes Patrick had that their little gang of strays wouldn't recognize Pete are dashed when Greta squeaks as Pete turns, his face illuminated in the van's headlights. "Shit," Tom mutters as Pete grins and waves, his teeth gleaming. Patrick glances over at Bob, whose lips are pressed together in a tight, tense line. 

Patrick gets out of the car, and he can see Pete opening his mouth to call out something and he can see Pete stop in surprise as Butcher and Greta, and then Tom, Darren and Chris come into view, climbing out of the back seat. Patrick shoots Pete a look that he hopes will come off as cautionary, a warning, and Pete hangs back with Andy and Joe.

"So you *do* know him," Butcher says, scowling at Patrick and Bob, but Patrick's not going to explain himself before they do. 

"Let's get inside," Bob says. "And you can tell us how you know who we are and what you're doing here." Butcher opens his mouth to argue, but Greta touches his elbow and he shuts his mouth. They file inside the gym doors, Pete and Andy and Joe stepping back into the shadows to let them pass through; Patrick hangs back a little with Pete, who's immediately at his side as soon as the new people are gone.

"What's going on?" Pete says. "Dude, they were staring at me."

"Dude, you're vamped out, of course they were," Joe says, rolling his eyes, but Patrick shakes his head.

"No, they recognized him," Patrick said. "They _asked_ for him when we bailed them out."

"I'm famous?" Pete says, bouncing on his toes, and Patrick, Andy and Joe all glare at him.

Everyone clusters in the office, their faces all tense after Patrick and Bob explain how this new group knew who Pete was. There aren't enough chairs, so most of them end up sitting on the floor, with Gerard and Pete standing in the corner. Gerard's arms are crossed over his chest and his jaw is tight, and with his long black hair and narrowed eyes and general resemblance to a pscycho killer, the new people look slightly alarmed. 

Greta twists her hands together as she stands; she looks pale and nervous, and Patrick remembers that her friend--Bob, apparently, and that's pretty creepy--just died. 

"The vampires attacked our high school last year," she says. "They only got a few kids, and it was covered up as a school shooting--most people didn't even realize what had happened, but the gym class that Bob and Chris and I were in was the one they targeted. That was our first encounter with them.

"They didn't go for the school again, but once we knew what they were we realized they had infested our neighborhood. We also heard about Pete Wentz and his group, how they were fighting back--tons of kids did, although I think most people thought you guys were just an urban legend. And then you were just gone, and that's when things started getting really bad."

"Our school shut down before the start of winter term," Darren says, speaking up. "The principal was eaten. They're not bothering to hide at all anymore, not in our part of town. It's all just chaos, and most people that can are leaving. We wanted to stay and fight, but there was no way. No fucking way."

"Where are your parents?" Brian asks, frowning.

"Not all of us are high schoolers," Tom says. He hesitates before saying, "Most of our parents fled to the suburbs."

He says 'most' and Darren folds his arms over his chest, his face going blank. Fuck, Patrick thinks. Even if they're not all in high school, Greta and Darren can't be older than seventeen, and none of them look too much older than that. Patrick used to think of seventeen as not _that_ long ago, but these days he feels pretty old.

"So why come here? How'd you find us?" Gerard says, and though his voice is mostly gentle there's a firmness behind it: he hasn't completely stopped evaluating them as a threat. For once, Patrick pretty much agrees with him, and he's damn curious about the answer to Gerard's question.

"Most kids thought you were dead," Greta says. "We kind of did, too, but--there were also all these rumors about Gerard Way's gang up in New Jersey, and then Taking Back Sunday toured through, and. Uh, that show got broken up by vampires, but in the aftermath we got to talking to their singer and he said that he'd heard about Pete Wentz being in the area. He thought Long Island, but we knew about Gerard Way, so when we finally had to get out of Chicago we just... came here." She takes a shaky breath. "I know it seems weird and random, but we want to help. And fight." She doesn't say 'and we don't have anywhere else to go,' but Patrick hears it anyway. He can tell from the way Gerard shifts his weight and ducks his chin, staring down at the floor, that he hears it too.

"Well, you can at least stay here for the night," Bob says, glancing at Gerard to make sure that they actually can, and Gerard nods. Patrick knows that they're all remembering how Pete's permanent stay here began with their permission to let him and his friends just stay the night; Patrick knows that the likelihood of Greta and her friends becoming permanent additions as well is high.

***

The new group stays the night, and then they stay another night, and then Patrick sees Gerard and Brian talking with their heads bent close together and he knows that the new people are here for good. It's not a surprise--how could they say no to more people on their side, willing to fight? It's just strange, because on some level Patrick still thinks of this as him, Pete, Andy and Joe against the world. Even though he's been in New Jersey for months, on a gut level he still hasn't adjusted to having other people involved, and now there are even more.

Five more, all from Chicago, Chicago which is apparently overrun by blood-suckers, Chicago where rock bands get interrupted by feeding frenzies and high school principals get eaten. Patrick tries to remember that it was his idea that they should leave.

A few days after the new people have settled in, Patrick finds himself awake at midday, which is a strange time for him to be awake these days. Patrick realizes as he wanders the halls, looking for anyone else awake for company, that partly this feels so strange to him because the arrival of Greta and her little group feels like it's just the beginning of something. A first sign, first of more to come. There's no reason for him to think that, it's just what he feels. 

Patrick used to be the kind of person who laughed at the thought of relying on signs or omens or something that just 'felt' momentous, but he's learned to trust his sense of foreboding. 

Patrick had expected the principal's office to be empty, but Greta is there, sitting on the couch and going through one of Patrick's journals. She glances up when she hears Patrick and her cheeks go pink.

"I hope this is okay," she says, gesturing with the journal. "Just, these are all lying around, and Bob and I--" she sucks in a breath hard. "--all of us don't know much about them, we're not really knowledgeable about any of this stuff we ran away from, we just--you know, we just ran."

"It's fine. It's good for you to research more, it's why Brian and I have all our books out." Patrick hesitates. He can see that Greta's eyes are red-rimmed before she ducks her head, her hair falling and obscuring her face. She's clearly been crying.

"Um," Patrick says, and immediately wants to kick himself for such an awkward harsh start. "Are you okay? Do you want me to, um..." he gestures out at the hall and wishes he knew what to say to a pretty 17-year-old girl who's just traveled across the country to escape from vampires. Wishes he had anything comforting.

"I'll be fine," Greta says, pushing her hair behind her ears. "It's just--fuck. I've known Bob since middle school. We were in band together." She swallows hard and looks like she's about to cry again, but she rubs her palm angrily over her cheek and doesn't.

"I just don't feel ready for him to be dead," she says. "I don't feel ready for any of this."

"I don't know if any of us are ready," Patrick says. "Not even Gerard."

Greta makes a face. "That sucks. I was hoping that we'd get here and you guys would know what you were doing."

Patrick sits down next to her. "We're figuring it out. Most of the time we do all right. But that doesn't mean we feel ready or prepared of any of the shit that keeps happening."

The smile Greta gives him is surprisingly sweet. "You all seem amazing to us. You're _fighting back._ "

The hope in her voice is hard to hear. Patrick wishes she would go back to swearing and doubting them. "Pete was my best friend for years, and when he went missing last spring we all thought he was dead. He came back like he is, and we were all being attacked, I almost got bit, and we hadn't had any idea vampires even existed."

"Jesus. Your friend, he got--what are you even trying to say?" Her sweet expression evaporates and her voice rises. "Are you saying that I should be--be fucking thankful that Bob didn't get turned all undead or something?"

"No! No, I'm not--" Patrick doesn't know what he's saying. "I just meant that. That I know how you feel, a bit." He resists the urge to pull at the ends of his hair. He must be making her feel so much worse.

Greta looks at him, chewing on her bottom lip. "You know what I really hate?"

Patrick exhales. "What?"

"I really hate that I keep thinking that Bob isn't going to be the last. That just because he died, that doesn't mean that Chris can't die. Or Tom, or you. Or me."

"We could all die all at once if Gabe's gang played their cards right. At any second, if you think about it."

"That's really disturbing."

Patrick shrugs. "Yeah. I try not to think that way too much."

Greta smirks. "You don't sound like you succeed."

"No," Patrick admits. "I've gotten pretty morbid."

Greta pulls her feet up on the couch, wrapping her arms around her knees. "I'm glad we made it. I'm glad--I'm glad Bob was the only one who died."

Patrick swallows something bitter. "I try not to think that way, too."

***

The new people don't really know how to fight. They've picked survival techniques up here and there, enough to stay alive and keep running, but the only one of them who really knows how to throw a decent punch is Tom. They need training, and Gerard and Ray dive into it with gusto: Ray finds some dusty old punching bags and archery targets in the school gym, and produces practice mannequins from seemingly out of nowhere--the set-up kind of reminds Patrick of their basement last summer, when he, Andy and Joe first started readying themselves to help Pete on his revenge mission. 

Gerard turns into a goth manic drill sergeant, walking back and forth in front of the group and shouting instructions and hints and warnings about vampires as Patrick helps the newbies practice punching, blocking, stabbing and everything else. If they notice that their teacher is drunk more than half the time, they don't say anything, but Patrick still feels embarrassed on Gerard's behalf.

"If you try to stake a vampire the way Buffy does on TV, you'll break your wrist and also get eaten," Gerard lectures. "You have to thrust up, the movement coming from your shoulder and torso--these fuckers are stronger and tougher than you are, so if you don't use your whole body as leverage you'll just scratch them." He demonstrates the motion on a stuffed mannequin, the movement surprisingly real and grisly-looking, considering that all Gerard stabs is feather stuffing.

"Is he always so, um." Greta mutters to Patrick as Gerard shakes feathers off his hands and tells them to start practicing the motion, aiming for the red X's on their own mannequins. 

Patrick smiles a little. "Pretty much, yeah. You get used to him, he's just. Intense." Greta smiles back and turns to her mannequin; she's doing well, really well at the training, but she looks bothered when they finish that night.

"It's not going to be that easy to aim for the heart if we actually get attacked," she says when Patrick asks what's wrong. "I guess it's all well and good to be as prepared as we can be, but--" she crosses her arms, hugging herself. "It just sucks that we're cooped in here, unable to leave the school because it isn't 'safe'. Not that I'm all gung-ho to be going up against them and getting eaten, but practicing on punching bags just makes me feel silly, because I know that I still wouldn't stand a chance in an actual one-on-one fight with a vampire."

"You'd be surprised what your body comes up with to save your life in that kind of scenario," Patrick says, thinking about pencils and blood. "Hitting mannequins probably feels dumb now, but it's making your arms remember the motions. Besides, I'm not planning on letting any of those monsters corner you in the first place," he adds. He'd meant that none of them would let her or her friends come to harm, but the look Greta gives him makes him realize that it came out like he was planning on protecting her, personally. 

"How noble of you," she says, her tone not really mocking or sarcastic at all. For a second, she's really seventeen and they're really walking down a high school hall and they could maybe just be strolling in between classes, or on the way to the cafeteria for lunch; for a second, Patrick almost takes her hand. 

He shakes his head. He didn't like feeling young when he was actually in high school, and he doesn't like it now.

There's still the question of how they heard about Pete relocating to Jersey in the first place, and it never stops nagging at Patrick's mind. He's glad that Greta and her friends were able to find them, but the idea that someone else might be able to is not a good idea at all. Neither Pete nor Patrick, Andy or Joe recognize the name of the man that Tom says told him the rumor of Pete's whereabouts, and they don't know how he knew. Patrick hadn't taken the risk of telling anyone, not his family nor any of the friends they had left, where they were going, and neither had the others. They had done their best to disappear without a trace, and it's disturbing to all of them to find out that they'd failed. 

Brian looks into it. "I'm guessing that they heard about you through plain old-fashioned hometown word-of-mouth gossip," he says. "But the word about what we're doing here is spreading outside your old haunts, mostly through online means."

"No one's devoted a website to us," Brian says quickly when he sees the look on Patrick's face. "Nothing that obvious, nothing Google-able. From what I can tell it's done largely through MySpace and mailing lists, 'fans' of Pete and Gerard--and not just them: all of our names have come up--talking in code about what we're doing, trying to spread the word and organize other resistance groups."

"But how does anyone even know we're here?" Patrick says, bewildered. "There aren't any humans around to notice us, and why would the vampires want to get the news out that people are fighting back?"

Brian shrugs. "Search me. Maybe we saved someone's life and they got back to civilization and started talking us up; maybe there's someone in with the vampires that wants to encourage rumors that Gabe is going to be taken down. Either way, I have a feeling that this group isn't going to be the first to show up at our doors and ask to help."

Patrick tries to wrap his head around the idea that other humans out there have heard of him and are discussing their fight in MySpace. His vampire resistance is being marketed the same way his band used to be--he's pretty sure there's a joke there that he's not quite getting.

Pete gets excited instead of concerned when Patrick tells him. "Man, do you know what this means? _We're not alone,_ Patrick." His hand squeezes Patrick's shoulder and his eyes are glittering. "There are more and more people out there who are finding out that vampires exist and are fighting back. This is awesome, this is--maybe we can increase our numbers, train more people, see how Gabe likes that..."

"The more people know about us, the more the other side could potentially know," Patrick finds out. "We can't just welcome with open arms any human that says they want to help because they heard about you on the internet. We don't know that we can trust this weird--fanclub or network or whatever it is."

***

"Dude, it's like they're little ducklings that imprinted on you and Bryar," Joe says. "Fucking mother hens, both of you."

Patrick rolls his eyes. "They just like patrolling with us because we're the first ones they met. Whatever. I'm no one's mom."

Joe snickers at Patrick's protest. "I don't know, man. They all seem kind of starry-eyed. I'm not sure who has a bigger crush on you, Greta or Darren."

Joe laughs louder when Patrick pinches the bridge of his nose. "There are no crushes on me," he snaps. "They're probably just shy, and Bob and I are the first ones they met, so--"

"So they imprinted like ducklings," Joe cuts him off. "See? Plus you and Bob are always patrolling together, so..."

Patrick scuffs his toe on the ground. They're on the school roof--the first time Patrick has been up here, actually. Joe told him he only discovered how to get up here a few days ago. Patrick thinks that the original Jersey guys have probably known for ages, but why would they think of telling them, anyway? Maybe Gerard takes Pete up here; he probably likes that none of Pete's friends know how to find them. 

Joe is pretty clearly asking why Patrick has spent most of his hunting time either patrolling with Bob, or training the newbies with Bob, or if he's not with Bob, then researching with Brian. Patrick would love to say that he's not avoiding his old bandmates, but--well, he isn't really. It's just. Sometimes Patrick needs to be not-close to someone.

"Bob is a good guy," Patrick says. "A fucking *great* guy to have at your back. And we get along well, we work well together." 

Joe shrugs. "Yeah, he seems cool."

Patrick sighs and looks out at the smoggy sunset. He really does like Bob. He and Bob talk about Chicago or drumming or the weather or nothing at all; Bob is solid, practically unshakeable, calm. His moods aren't mercurial, he doesn't buckle under constant bloodlust that he tries to deny, Patrick can't feel his neediness from across the room. Patrick doesn't have to focus on him or worry about him. Patrick doesn't have to wonder about whether his relationship with an alcoholic is making things better or worse.

"And it's kind of cool to see how they work differently than we did," Patrick says. "They've been doing this for so much longer, you know? There's so much we could learn."

"Oh yeah, definitely." Joe says. "I've been talking to Ray a lot. That guy, dude, he really knows his shit when it comes to weaponry. I'm trying to get him to make me an axe like his." Joe grins, rubbing the scruff of his new beard. 

"Chicks love axes these days," Patrick says, grinning back.

It's not getting to be a problem, exactly, that the newbies almost always want to patrol with him and Bob; it's just distracting. Even though they're getting better, and even though they rarely have to tackle anything huge during regular patrols, Patrick still has to worry about someone else's well-being--really, Patrick would never think to worry about Bob's well-being. It's Bob.

Patrick notices that more often than not, it's Greta and either Darren or Tom. They sit in back (Greta always seems to be sitting on her hands, she says they get cold) and sometimes Patrick feels like he and Bob are parents driving teenagers to soccer practice in a mini-van. He shakes the feeling before long, when Tom lights up a cigarette or Greta curses or they have to fight to save someone's life, but it's always just a little jarring. It's silly and he knows it's silly, because it's not like they're that younger than him. He knows that the discomfort is probably more because Greta is the first girl he's really interacted with in... almost a year if he thinks about it, which is beyond depressing, and he feels a little guilty--he knows he should probably be treating her the same as anyone else. He can tell that many of the other guys are walking on eggshells around her, too, but still, he just knows that he wouldn't want that kind of treatment if it were him. 

He's there when Greta kills her first vampire, by accident: she turns and the vampire rushing at her impales itself on her stake, which she just happened to be holding up. Patrick knows that Gerard's obsessive, crazed training is responsible for making that automatic for her; the impact knocks her down, and when he gives her a hand to help her up he lets her hold on for several seconds longer than she has to, until she stops shaking. 

"Thanks," she says, her voice blank--it's an automatic courtesy, not actual gratitude, but Patrick still smiles at her.

"Nice one, Buffy," Patrick says, even though she's told him that she's sick of the blonde-chick-vampire-hunter joke since she used to get it so much from Tom and Bob. But right now it makes her laugh just a little, makes her run a hand through her hair and look slightly less white. 

It takes the Chicago kids a little while to completely warm up to Pete and his fangs--it's one thing to hear news about a vigilante vampire on the side of good, but it's another thing to see the kind of creature who's hunted you for the last several years smile and ask you to please pass the coffee in the mornings. 

Patrick hears Joe and Pete asking the new guys about Chicago all the time, questions either eager and nostalgic or concerned, wondering about the state of things. They seem thirsty for any and all details of home, any news, and Patrick never wants to hear it. He knows Greta's high school was down the street from the last job he had before he quit for Fall Out Boy; he knows she had a part-time job at one of his favorite cafes. If he starts focusing on any of that he'll just make himself sick.

He has to stay focused on Pete, on New Jersey, on Maja's gang which is an offshoot of Gabe's gang which is only barely related to William's hierarchy. Chicago is not relevant to what they're fighting in Belleville.

Greta continues to be genuinely interested in his journals, in any and all of the random pieces of information about vampirism that Patrick and Brian have managed to compile. Patrick helps her out, explains more in detail when she asks for it, gives personal accounts. He tries not to notice the way she meets his eyes more than she needs to during the explanations, or the way she keeps tucking her hair behind her ears or licking her lips. Sometimes Pete will walk into the office while the two of them are on the couch, poring over one of Patrick's journals, and he'll pause, stare; and even though it's Pete it's still something cold-blooded that sends a chill down Patrick's spine. Still something inhuman.

He knows that it creeps Greta out, too. She's quieter when Pete's around, visibly nervous; Patrick finds himself looking up to meet Pete's eyes and giving him the recognized look of _I'll talk to you later, okay?_ Pete always scowls, but he always leaves. This happens a few times before Patrick notices the warm, grateful smiles Greta gives him afterwards, the way she seems to think it's some kind of... he doesn't know what she thinks it is. 

Patrick starts avoiding the office after that, tries not to spend as much time on the couch with the books and with her. He knows what needs to be focused on. 

***

When Spring gets closer, Gerard makes them all draw straws. "Bright lights, big city," he says with the lopsided hungover sneer that Patrick is beginning to find extremely annoying. "Short straws get to take the van into Manhattan to get us all supplies."

Pete is exempt, because going at night or trying to keep him out of the sunlight would be too complicated. Patrick stares down at the short straw in his hand, unsure of what to think: the idea of getting out of Belleville, even just for a day, is exhilarating. But although Patrick has only been to New York City as a kid with his family and on tours, the idea of seeing it taken over by vampires like Belleville--or ravaged by vampire gang wars, like Chicago--is already sickening. New York City is part of the outside world, a huge and vibrant part of an outside world that Patrick wants to believe is okay, and if it's not he's not sure he wants to know. 

Pete finds Patrick in his room before Patrick has to leave with the rest of the short straws. "Come back in one piece, all right?" Pete says, leaning on Patrick's door frame with his arms crossed, scowling with his hair flopping in front of his eyes. Patrick doesn't know why he's scowling. 

"I was actually planning on getting shipped back to you in a box. I called FedEx about it and they can deliver here."

The scowl deepens and Pete crosses the room to Patrick, his movements quick the way they get when he's too distracted to make himself deliberate--to downplay his strength and speed and seem human. "Fucking hilarious, man. Seriously. Do you know what you're driving into in the city? Does Bob?"

Bob, Greta and Butcher had drawn the other short straws. Patrick shrugs. "I guess I'll find out. Dude, it's just a supply run. I'll be gone for a whole day, wow, scary!"

"Dude, Patrick," Pete says sarcastically. "Anything can happen in a whole day, jackass."

Patrick rolls his eyes. "I'll be fine, okay?"

Pete narrows his eyes. "You promise? You won't get involved in anything, I don't know, heroic or stupid or dangerous in the big city?"

"For fuck's sake, Pete, I have just as much investment in keeping myself alive and unharmed as you do! I promise. I'll be fine." Patrick knows that he should be touched by the concern, glad of it, but mostly it's kind of annoying. Pete touches Patrick's arm, squeezes it and Patrick thinks: clingy.

He hates himself when he thinks like this. He needs to get out of here for a day.

"Knock, knock?" And there's Gerard in the doorway, and instantly Patrick's thoughts change to wanting Pete to stay here, his hand concerned on Patrick's arm, instead of immediately crossing the room to lean against Gerard, bumping hips. "Pat, Bob says he's only waiting on you. They're ready to go."

"Don't call me Pat," Patrick says for the fucking thousandth time. He can't smell any booze on Gerard as he passes him, but he'd bet anything that Pete, with his nose, sure as hell can. Gerard waves goodbye over his shoulder at Patrick as Pete leans in to press his nose against Gerard's neck.

Outside, Bob is in the driver's seat and Frank is outside standing on his tiptoes to lean into the car window, their heads bent together. Patrick resists the urge to stomp around to the other side of the van, and does not slam the door shut when he gets in the backseat.

He's not usually such a grinch when it comes to other, happy couples. He squeezes his eyes shut and slumps down in his seat as Bob starts the car and drives away. 

The drive is shorter than Patrick expected--he always forgets how small the geography is on the east coast, how cities and states are squashed in close to each other. What's most disconcerting, then, is how quickly the landscape goes from vampiric ghost town to normal: it seems like Patrick blinks and suddenly they're in a sane world again, stuck in traffic going into the city, surrounded by cars honking their horns and suits on cell phones and pollution and sky-scrapers and so much fucking humanity.

They stop at a Wendy's to get food, and it's so surreal Patrick feels like he's going to choke on it. 

Bob goes down the list of stuff they need. It's mostly hardware, weaponry stuff, with a lot of food staples thrown in--usually, they can get food fine in Belleville, but sometimes when the vampires really have the upper hand it's scarce. Also, cigarettes; they ran out the day before yesterday, and since then half of the people in their group has been near crazy. 

And then there's the ingredients for Pete's I Can't Believe It's Not Blood! smoothie. Patrick knows that he and Gerard are the only ones who know that they ran out last week; Patrick gets goosebumps every time he thinks about it, but Pete has seemed mostly okay, if extremely tense. As reluctant as Patrick is to admit it, he trusts Gerard pretty implicitly to keep an eye on Pete, to keep him on the right side if the lack of his blend affects him too much.

Patrick can't stop gawking at everything he sees. The city is normal. They're two hours away from death and despair, and New York City doesn't have a fucking care in the world. The sun is out. Patrick thinks he spots a robin in Central Park. 

"Is this insane or what?" he murmurs to Greta, and doesn't realize that he's leaned in rather close to whisper in her ear until he hears her sharp intake of breath. But she smiles and turns her head to him, saying "Yeah, it is kind of weird. All of these... people, just. Normal."

Patrick smiles, practically in her hair. "It is weird, but. Kind of nice. Don't you think?"

She laughs softly and nods, and Patrick makes himself move back. They're walking a bit behind the rest of the group; all their supplies are taken care of, loaded into the van, and now they have the afternoon free. They wander the Village for a while (all these fucking people and none of them are dead or undead and none of them are fighting and Patrick can't stop staring) and end up at a cafe named Snice. It's bright orange and Patrick orders an iced mocha and a garlic chicken wrap and he almost starts hyperventilating it tastes so good.

Patrick looks around at the rest of his team happily stuffing their faces, and it occurs to him that he doesn't necessarily have to go back. There is no law that says he has to go back to living in an abandoned high school in a town he's not even from fighting a fight they've already lost. No one is fighting for their life in this cafe. No one on these sidewalks in the sunlight is making life or death decisions.

At the end of the day Patrick is going to be in a van full of weaponry and cigarettes and supplies to keep a good vampire docile, heading back to Hell, and it occurs to him that he's not even sure why. William isn't here, none of the things Patrick was fighting for in Chicago are here. The group they have fighting is large enough that his presence isn't particularly necessary, and Pete--Gerard could be the one looking after Pete, if Patrick weren't here. 

Patrick met Pete seven years ago, when he was in fucking high school, when all he knew about Pete was that he was from Arma Angelus, that he was a rock star, that he really thought Patrick could go somewhere with his music. Patrick has been following him ever since, and that made sense when Pete was doing the frontman work for the band, navigating shark's waters and being the businessman so that they could *all* be successful. But what if that 15-year-old instinct to look up to the rock star is the only reason he's in this? Is his whole part of the fight only happening because of an utterly retarded amount of devotion to Pete?

The waitress comes by to give them their check, giving Patrick a glassy-eyed smile. Patrick finds himself staring, wondering what she thinks of their group, if she has any clue that vampires exist, and if she doesn't--how the hell can she not? Patrick gets goosebumps again as he actually thinks about that, about the fact that Belleville is two hours away and no one in New York City seems to have any clue about what's happened there, that no one has done anything, that this city seems untouched by all the things he's seen. How is that even--how the fuck does that even work?

Patrick pushes abruptly away from the table and stands up, making his chair scrape and the others look up at the sound. "I'm gonna get some air," Patrick says, not caring that it sounds kind of ridiculous.

"I'll go with you. I need a smoke," Bob says, standing up as well, and Patrick shrugs. Bob follows him out the back door, to an alley next to the cafe, and Patrick pretends he can't feel the questioning eyes of all the new kids they've left at the table on his back.

"Something on your mind, man?" Bob says as he lights up, and Patrick lets out a long breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Fuck, Bob. Look around you." Patrick spreads his arms out, expansively gesturing to the whole city. "These people don't have a clue. This whole city is like--what the *fuck,* man! There's a whole town that's been taken over by fucking vampires two hours away, and New York City is fine! How does that even work? How has _no one noticed?_ We should--fuck, we should get Gerard and Pete down here, we should tell someone, we could get help. There's this whole--no way could Gabe and his gang keep the town against the whole NYPD, or the National Guard, or whatever. Why haven't we--we need to do something!"

He's aware that he's barely making any sense but he yells it out anyway; Bob just looks at him, cigarette smoke curling out his nostrils. "How is this not driving you insane?" Patrick finishes, incredulous and spluttering.

Bob takes the cigarette out of his mouth. "We've made this supply trip every few months or so for the last two years. We know what the city's like, Patrick. It's only a surprise to you."

Patrick feels his hands clench into fists. "So you know--you've known that all of Manhattan has no fucking clue what's happening just north of here? Jesus, why the hell haven't you guys done anything, why haven't you spread the word?"

Bob snorts. "Right. Why do you think no one here knows anything? Do you think that's just coincidence, do you think everyone in this city is just that unobservant? They're here, Patrick. They've infiltrated New York the same way they did Chicago, only they started at the top this time. The mayor, the NYPD, the heads of all the news corporations: they're all either vamps or being controlled by them. They've got most of this whole city under some kind of spell, we don't even really know how they're doing it, but--" Bob's voice has been rising and he cuts himself off, taking a long drag of smoke with his head down. 

"It's useless to try and tell anyone about Belleville," he says finally. "Even if they weren't being manipulated by monsters, no one is ready to hear it."

Patrick feels like his own lungs are filled with smoke. "If you're saying that New York is halfway under their control, that means. Fuck. That's big, Bob. That's more than just Belleville or Chicago--"

"I know. It is big. They're not just thinking about anything petty now. This is a war."

Patrick swallows. "If this is war, then what the hell are we doing in Belleville?" He resists the urge to look over his shoulder, to check for spies or things in the shadows, refuses to give in to the feeling of being watched. "If things are so dire then why aren't we *here?* New York City getting taken over is kind of a big fucking deal, kind of just slightly more important than some lost New Jersey town. What the fuck are we doing up there? Is it just because of Gerard and his crazy mission?"

"Don't you dare say a word about Gerard," Bob snaps, his face clouding over immediately. "You don't know a god damn thing about him or about Belleville."

"Because you haven't been honest about anything!" Patrick's yelling again, he knows he should quiet down, but right now all he wants is to yell and maybe punch Bob Bryar's face in. "You and Gerard keep your fucking secrets and keep us stuck up there in Belleville where we're fucking useless, picking off vampires one by one on fucking stupid nightly patrols when apparently they're _taking over the god damn world_ \--"

"You're so full of shit," Bob says. "You think that just because you clued in to the scary things under the bed a few months ago that you can--"

"It doesn't fucking matter! We're losing the fight and _nothing you're doing matters!_ " Patrick lets his chest heave and he swears he can hear an echo of his own angry words, ringing in the cold air. "We're not doing jack shit to hold them up and you know it," he finishes. 

The line of Bob's jaw is tense and his cigarette is burning down to the filter, forgotten. He's staring and Patrick wonders if Bob is going to hit him. But he doesn't; he flicks the cigarette on the ground and grinds it into the pavement before turning around and walking back inside the cafe, letting the door slam behind him. Patrick follows.

"We're leaving," Bob says to Greta and Butcher, slapping some bills down on the table to pay.

Butcher frowns. "We've still got time. I've never been to New York before, I was hoping--"

"We want to get back before dark," Bob says, glancing out at the skyline where the sun is almost ready to set. He's not looking at Patrick. "We have to deal with commuter traffic, so we need to get out of here now."

None of them argue. Patrick gets in the back seat with Greta again, and Bob doesn't look at him; he just rolls down the window and chain-smokes until they get out of the city. Everyone is quiet, and Patrick slumps down in his seat, lets his hat fall forward on his face.

He doesn't know if he meant any of the things he said to Bob; he doesn't know what he really thinks about any of this. He's tired of so much. The drive out of New York seems to be much shorter than the drive in.

Patrick can see the sun set out the grimy window to his side, red-orange over the husks of abandoned buildings and highways. Bob cranks the music higher as dusk and then twilight settles--as quick as the drive seems to be going, they still haven't made it before dark, and Patrick can see the line of Bob's shoulder grow tense. 

The road gets more and more beat-up the closer they get to home, potholes making the van jerk and shake every time Patrick gets close to drifting off. In the seat next to him he can hear Greta's slight snore, more of a deep wheezing; unlike him, she's apparently not having any trouble napping. Patrick can only hear murmured snatches of Butcher's conversation in the front with Bob.

They're about an hour away from the school when there's a loud bang, and then four more loud bangs. Bob yells and tires squeal and Patrick is thrown into the opposite wall as the van skids and lurches. He can feel Bob slamming on the brakes and then there's a sickening moment when Patrick can _feel_ the van teetering on two wheels before it crashes gracelessly down onto all four again and Patrick clings to the back of Butcher's seat to avoid getting slammed against the window again.

"The _fuck?_ " Butcher says, at the same time that Bob says "Fuck, the tires," and then Patrick hears other engines roaring to life. 

He looks out and sees two black cars coming up the on-ramp towards them on the highway, and barely registers seeing an arm reach out one of the windows and raise a gun before he's throwing himself to the car floor, Bob yelling "Duck! _Get away from the windows!_ " before gunshots drive out any other sound. Patrick covers his head and the back of his neck, automatically remembering duck and cover position from earthquake drills in elementary school, and his mouth is completely dry when he turns his head sideways to see if Greta is crouched low like he is or if her body is slumped and full of holes.

She's pressed close to the van floor, her blonde hair tangled and falling over her face, her hands thrown up over her head like Patrick's. Her shoulders shake when a new round of shots goes off. 

Patrick counts only a couple seconds of silence before the door on the driver's side bangs open and he hears Bob clambering out. He lifts his head in time to see Bob swing his crossbow up and fire it, first at the arm holding the gun (there's a scream) and then at the front tire to the car. There's a pop and hiss and then screeching as the car swerves out of control, into the path of the other car. Bob bellows, "Everybody out!" and Patrick scrambles for the van door, barely remembering to grab his crossbow on the car floor as he half-jumps, half-tumbles out onto the street and lands in a roll.

Butcher clambers out of the van next to Patrick, and Bob curses as the gunshots start again. Patrick hears Greta scream as she stumbles out of the van, and Patrick pulls her to the ground, kneeling and trying to cover both of them until the shots die down again. Patrick thinks wildly that Bob is on the other side of the van, fuck, he must have gotten shot ten times over, but then he sees Bob stumble around the back, holding his arm. 

Bob is wrenching open the doors in the back as Patrick gets to his side, and--yes, the flamethrower. "I don't really know how well this is going to work, you should probably stand back," Bob says thoughtfully as he heaves the nozzle up and aims at the closest car, the vampires already climbing out of it. They're fast, and most have already flung themselves away by the time Bob shoots and the car explodes.

The heat and force of the explosion knocks Patrick on his ass, and as he scrambles away on his elbows he sees the flame thrower roll to the side, spent and still spitting gas. He can hear some of the vampires screaming, and he fervently hopes that they all caught on fire and are burning to death slowly.

"Fuck," Bob pants as they both get to the other, protected side of the van and collapse against it. 

"Do we have spares?" Patrick says, eyeing the utterly flat tires, although he's pretty sure he already knows the answer.

"Only one, and we won't have the time to change a tire because they're going to be trying to kill us as soon as they recover."

"Shit, your hands!" Butcher says, touching Bob's wrist gingerly. Bob jerks away; his hands are bright red and Patrick is pretty sure he can see blistering.

"I'm fine," Bob snaps. "The flame thrower just--malfunctioned a bit towards the end, but it's probably not even second degree."

"It looks--" Butcher says, but Bob cuts him off.

"It's *fine,"* he says. "I don't know if you've noticed, but we have some bigger problems right now." 

"Did you see how many there were?" Greta says. She's clutching her stake hard, her knuckles white, and Patrick notices the bulk in her sweater that implies she has at least one more tucked under her shirt. Good.

"Both of those cars were full," Patrick says. He can still hear flames crackling, screams and the occasional minor explosion from the dying car. The vampires haven't regrouped enough yet to come after them, but Patrick doubts they have much time left before they have to fight.

"We're heavily outnumbered whatever way you spin it, and my little trick back there won't save us too much more time," Bob says. "Can someone else call home base and ask them to come rescue us already? My hands are kind of--" he gestures with his swollen fingers, and Butcher quickly says "Sure" and gets out his own phone.

Patrick thunks his head back against the edge of the van behind him, closing his eyes and tuning out Butcher's voice (pitched a lot higher than usual) explaining the situation to Brian. The likelihood that anyone will get Dirty's old rust bucket out here before the vampires finish them off is low enough that it doesn't really bear considering. Patrick has spent most of his waking minutes since they started this fight more than a year ago expecting his luck to run out, his lack of experience and clumsy humanity to catch up with him; now that he's pretty sure that time is finally here, he mostly just feels tired, again, and a little bit annoyed. He had been looking forward to listening to the new CDs he'd allowed himself to buy, god dammit. The fucking blood-suckers couldn't even allow him to enjoy one last costly luxury? 

It's not fair. It sucks. He's dying when he's not even sure what he's fighting for, when the angry words he yelled at Bob are still hanging around whispering to him--when he's possibly just fucked up the one real friendship he's made aside from Pete and Andy and Joe.

When Patrick opens his eyes, Greta is looking at him, and Patrick can see the same "but, but, not _fair,_ " feeling reflected in her eyes. When she catches him looking, she grinds her teeth and switches her stake to her other hand, shaking out her fingers and then pushing her hair back. 

"If we get out of this, you should really cut your hair," Patrick says. "It's long and curly, it could pretty easily get in the way during a fight."

Greta smiles. "Yeah, I know. I've been meaning to, I just. Haven't gotten around to it yet." 

Now you never will, Patrick thinks. You'll die a pretty corpse with all those long blonde curls. 

He closes his eyes again. Sometimes he catches himself thinking like the enemy, and it's horrifying enough to always bring a whole new level of empathy and sorrow for Pete, caught with an even greater degree of treacherous thoughts and instincts in his head and heart all day, every day.

"I'll definitely cut it as soon as we get back," she says with resolve in her voice, and Patrick thinks, for fuck's sake! You're seventeen! You are not this brave, no way. 

"Well, *that's* all right then. As soon as we get back," he says, and he knows exactly how mean and sarcastic it comes out but doesn't make any effort to tone his voice down. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Butcher flip his phone shut, hears "Well, they're coming as fast as they can," and hears the vampires grow quieter and quieter, less screams and more getting their act together to attack again.

"Yeah, as soon as we get back." And Greta's voice matches his in sharpness, and she tosses her hair over her shoulder and glares at him. 

Then she reaches out and takes Patrick's hand, the one that isn't holding the crossbow, and squeezes it and holds it hard. One moment Patrick is meeting her eyes again and thinking _You're seventeen, you're seventeen,_ and the next moment gunshots make him jump again, all of them scrambling to their feet, and the guns are just noise to mask the vampires getting closer, because suddenly they're surrounded. 

Patrick lets go of Greta's hand and fires his crossbow again and again until they're too close, until he has to throw it away and only manages to pull out a stake just in time to get it between him and the vampire launching itself at him. It sticks between its ribs instead of in its heart, and it stumbles back choking on blood but still alive. Patrick tackles it to the ground, has to straddle it and pull the wood out with a sickening slurping sound and plunge it back into the thing's heart before it stills.

Patrick barely has time to feel relief before he feels a sharp blow to the back of his head, sending him sprawling. Before he can recover there's another one to his ribs, winding him completely, and then the vampire is on top of him. He's dizzy and he can feel wetness at the back of his head, but he bucks up hard instinctually when he sees it lean in, and the fangs slice his shoulder instead of his neck. Patrick yells and hears a snarl, feels hot breath against his skin and then a hard fist against his jaw that knocks teeth loose; he struggles and tries to get a knee up to get it off, tries to reach the other stake in his belt, and then he hears a horrible scream and feels blood--not his own--soaking his shirt as the vampire slumps dead against him. 

"Ngyah," he hears Greta grunt, a noise of disgust as she pulls her stake out and tries to shove the deadweight off of him. Patrick pushes too, scrambling out from under the thing, and sways as soon as he stands.

"My--" Patrick's fingers move clumsily to the back of his neck, the base of his skull, and he can feel more wetness matting his hair. When he looks at Greta she's kind of all fuzzy on the edges. He blinks hard and she becomes more in focus as she's attacked again, a vampire twice her size and he can see her attempting the blocking moves that he taught her himself. Patrick lurches forward and grabs the thing's shoulder, twisting it away from her and he puts all his weight behind it when he shoves the stake in its chest, stumbling into it.

"Jesus." Greta is pulling him away from the corpse, back against her and taking the bloody stake from her hand. "Your head, god, are you okay?"

"I'm kind of--" concussed, maybe. Probably. But it doesn't matter, he needs to, they still all have to fight--

Bob is still fighting with his crossbow, picking them off yards away from him, and Butcher beside him is swinging an axe. He's not as formidable as Ray with it, hasn't been using it long enough to be, but it's still making more of the vampires keep their distance. Greta yanks Patrick forward until they're behind Bob and Butcher, grouped together and all facing out, and the vampires seem to take that as a sign: they retreat as quickly and effectively as they first attacked, and even though Bob roars in frustration and fires bolts off into the darkness, they're gone.

Not for good. Not for long. Patrick knows this even as his balance fails and he weaves forward and backwards, Greta's hand clutching at his back the only thing keeping him upright.

"Shit," Butcher says shakily. "There were way more than I thought, that had to be--at least twenty of the fuckers--"

"There's not twenty of them anymore," Bob says, and as the adrenaline slowly leaves Patrick's system he becomes aware of the blood caking his hands and forearms. He must really stink.

"We should regroup," Patrick hears himself say. "This is like an intermission, we should use it to--to, um--"

"He got hit on the head," Greta says, her arm moving around Patrick's shoulders when Bob and Butcher both turn to stare at him. "I think he might have, um, a concussion? Something?"

"Damn," Bob says, touching the stickiness at the back of Patrick's head. "It's stopped bleeding, but it does look pretty ugly."

"Well, at least keeping him awake won't be a problem," Butcher says. "Considering all the violence."

"Right," Patrick mutters, letting his head rest on Greta's shoulder. He feels her tense briefly before she relaxes, the hand on his shoulder stroking his skin slightly. He's vaguely aware that he wouldn't do this normally, but the awareness doesn't seem to affect his actions. Greta is soft and nice to lean against, and her long pretty hair is brushing his cheek.

Greta smells like blood and guts, too, but Patrick doesn't mind too much. It's atmospheric--in a horrible way, yes, but all the same.

"There are more weapons in the van. We should all load up, it's probably going to be a long night." Bob's voice sounds far away, and Patrick pushes his nose against Greta's neck and lets himself just breathe for a moment.

***

He doesn't know how long they sit on the asphault on the protected side of the van, waiting for the sun to rise or for the cavalry to arrive. He knows that home is only an hour away, so if they're not here yet--not much time has passed. Not as much as it feels like, the seconds are all just getting stretched. There's a bandage on his shoulder from the first-aid kid and Greta is holding a wad of gauze and ice against the swelling bump and wound at the back of his skull. Patrick is pretty sure he's not too woozy to hold it himself, but Greta insisted.

Her fingers on his neck are kind of pleasant. They're sitting close together and she keeps leaning her head on his good shoulder before lifting it to say something to Bob or Butcher. Patrick doesn't know what they're talking about, can't really follow the conversation--he's sleepy, despite the threat of impending death.

"Are you still bleeding?" Patrick starts when she moves her hand away from his head, checking the gauze. He's not sure how much time has passed since he sat down and zoned out next to Greta, and he lets himself hope for a second that the sky might be getting lighter, but. Probably not.

"Mm. Am I?" Patrick says, craning around to look at the dirty bandage in Greta's hand as she re-folds it.

"I don't think so. It's going to be just fine." Her hand moves back to his neck, fingers curling in his hair, and Patrick finds himself mimicking the gesture, sliding his own hand over the back of her shoulders and against her nape. He feels her shiver and she moves in when he does, their lips bumping before the kiss actually starts, insistent and real.

She breaks it off to breathe soft and high against his cheek and Patrick pulls her closer, almost into his lap and they kiss again. He's aware of her hair falling to act as a curtain, hiding their faces and brushing against his jaw and ears, and he's aware of the buzzing loopy feeling in his head and the click of her teeth against his. His hand moves to her lower back and she feels hot there, solid and alive and she arches back against him through the kissing, making sounds against his tongue.

"Hey--" Butcher's voice cuts sharp and loud through it. Patrick bangs his sore head back against the van in his haste to pull back, and Greta is off him immediately like she was never there in the first place. And Patrick hears what made Bob exclaim, hears the engine of a car--it must be the other one, the one they didn't torch--begin to rev.

Bob is already up on his feet as Patrick grabs his crossbow and scrambles to stand. He takes Greta's hand automatically when she offers it to steady him, then blushes hard as he remembers what they just did, that he just had his tongue in the mouth of a seventeen-year-old. He drops her hand quickly and focuses on his weapon and on listening to the car get louder--it's coming right for them.

It doesn't matter that their van is blocking both lanes of the road: the vampires' car careens around it, up onto the shoulder of the highway before swerving, and Patrick is running and throwing himself to the side before he sees the gleam of the gun barrels pointed out of the windows. The shots are expected and he just focuses on getting away, on putting the bulk of the van between him and the guns, even though he knows that trying to run and hide from a car of vampires on his own two feet is laughable. But survival instinct kicks in even when it's pointless, and he can hear the tires screech as the car reverses to come after them on this side of the van already. 

"Greta!" Butcher's voice sounds horrified, and Patrick feels his whole body skip a beat and hang there for a second as he hears Butcher's cry and sees the blood soaking Greta's shirt at the same time.

"It's just a graze," she pants, holding her side. "They're coming back around--"

"There, go, behind the other car!" Bob yells, grabbing Patrick's elbow and hustling them behind the burnt husk of the car that exploded earlier, now lying on it's side and offering just enough shelter to keep them from becoming bullet-ridden as they dive to avoid another round of shots. It's not enough, they're toast in two seconds when the car gets close enough to shoot at them again, and Bob yanks Patrick's crossbow out of his hands and kneels up enough to get a clear shot. Patrick doesn't know what the fuck he's doing, sharp wooden stakes won't do a damn thing to steel, but then he hears a bang and a metallic squeal, and--Bob went for one of the tires. Patrick could _kiss_ him.

"Sure would be nice if the others could get here sometime soon," Bob grunts as he ducks back down with them behind the car. Greta's breathing is harsh, even if it is just a graze and there's no bullet in her gut. Butcher has his shirt off and is tearing a strip off to press against the bleeding; Patrick reaches forward to press his fingers against the wound, covering Greta's hand already there. Butcher pauses and glances between the both of them, and Greta catches his hand and squeezes. 

"Sure would," Patrick says, agreeing. He has no idea how long ago they got ambushed, whether enough time has passed that hoping for rescue from home would be plausible--has it been an hour? It feels longer than that, small moments like Greta's hand over his stretched out to make the seconds between when they're trying not to die seem longer.

Later, Patrick will know that it takes them all by surprise because they're focused forward, on the car in front of them, instead of having any senses trained on threats behind or around them. But at the moment it seems like the pale hand he sees out of the corner of his eye comes out of nowhere, moving quick to grab Greta's hair and yank her back. Another pair of hands are suddenly on Butcher, grabbing him too fast for anyone to react and then Patrick hears Butcher scream high as teeth sink into the muscle between his shoulder and his neck. 

It dawns on Patrick as he yells and tries to fight off the ones on him that of course, of _course_ all the remaining vampires wouldn't fit in that one car, of course they'd be waiting for them. They've caught them tired and bleeding and panicked, and Patrick can see three of them ganged up on Bob, can see Butcher headbutting one away from him as he holds his fingers clamped against the hole in his neck, and Greta sinking her own teeth into one's arm as it tries to strangle her. Patrick feels blinding pain at the back of his head again and things go mostly dark as he falls forward onto his face, a heavy weight on top of him and pushing him down into the road. 

He can hear that fucking car still going, the engine roaring and tires screeching, and more gunshots; he slams an elbow back into the soft flesh of the vampire on top of him, feebly fighting as much as he can, because he'd rather die with a bullet in his head than with fangs in his throat. 

The car is louder, closer, almost on top of them and Patrick feels the vampire hit the back of his head again, gravel sharp against his cheek. The pain is enough to make Patrick go limp for a second and stop struggling, and he hears the car come to a stop and there's yelling all around him and part of him has given up and is waiting for teeth to tear at him but then the weight on his back is suddenly lifted--

Patrick realizes suddenly that now the yells and screams of pains are coming from the vampires instead of from them, and when he lifts his head his vision clears enough that he can see another car, Dirty's old rustbucket. That was the engine he heard near him, it's the fucking cavalry, Frank coming out from behind the wheel and swinging Ray's huge axe that's probably longer than he is tall, and Pete. Pete pulling the vampire off of Patrick and killing it, Pete saving Patrick's life, Pete crouching down and pulling Patrick up and Patrick feels safe.

***

Pete, Frank, Andy, Gerard and Tom are their rescue party; Patrick is positive that the only reason they got here in time, the only reason he's still alive, is because Frank drove at highly unsafe speeds, fear for Bob making him crazed. Patrick is too tired to be properly grateful, but Pete won't let him sleep because of the concussion; he props Patrick up against the side of the car after all the vampires are dead, and makes him drink water and shakes him lightly any time Patrick gets close to drifting off. He just grins when Patrick curses him out.

Patrick is too out of it to pay attention to the other reunions, to the discussions of how they're going to get nine people back in one station wagon. Afterwards Patrick finds out that they change the one bad tire of the vampires' car with the spare in the back of the van and take that car instead of the old van, leaving it to rust on the highway, but in the moment he's only aware of someone helping him sit down on leather seats with Greta next to him, her hand on his knee as they drive away. 

The drive home seems to pass quickly. Joe is at the wheel, and Butcher is in the front seat with a wad of bandages against his neck. Tom is on Greta's other side, smoking out the window; Patrick can see him grasping Greta's hand, squeezing it tightly. The hand that isn't on Patrick's knee, that is, and when Joe meets Patrick's eyes in the rearview mirror Patrick tries to slide his knee out from under her touch as casually as possible. She glances at him and moves her hand to his lap.

Patrick isn't ready for anyone else to know about this yet--doesn't even know what this is, isn't even really clear on what _happened._ The whole horrific ordeal is beginning to blur in his memory already like the yellow lines blurred on the highway, and he's still coming down from the adrenaline, from the certainty of death. He doesn't know what Greta thinks about any of it. 

Patrick ignores everyone trying to talk to him about the fight and how they got ambushed and how many there were and what they looked like and falls into bed as soon as Brian says it's okay for him to do so without making his head injury worse. He sleeps for close to forever, and when he wakes up slow and groggy he can't remember his dreams, but Greta is the first thing on his mind and his lips feel like he's been kissing someone.

Patrick rolls over in bed and presses his face into his pillow, muffling his groan as he remembers every touch with Greta more and more. God, had he really acted like that? She's _seventeen._ Fuck, at least he can blame the concussion.

Except for how he really can't, because he knows himself and he knows how he's been looking at her and thinking about her. He can't really blame himself too much: Greta is pretty and strong and amazing, and also the first girl any of them have seen in more than a year. Patrick knows he's not the only one--he's seen Ray eyeing her, noticed how Brian goes out of his way to help her with research or answer any question she might possibly have about anything, and Joe seems to hover at her elbow a lot, too. That's not even counting the way Chris and Darren, guys her own age, guys she was friends with before this, practically orbit around her.

And Patrick isn't blind, and seventeen-year-old girls aren't subtle: Greta's mostly just had eyes for him, which is baffling but flattering, and now Patrick has to figure out a way to nicely let her know that it was a one-time, oh-fuck-we're-so-going-to-die-and-I'm-concussed thing. 

At the thought of a just-friends talk, the memory of her soft lip between his teeth and the warmth of her back under his hand immediately swims to the surface of his mind. Christ. He needs a shower, he needs some coffee and some breakfast, he needs to avoid her until he can pull himself together enough to actually mean what he has to say.

He runs into Bob almost as soon as he leaves his room. "Hey," Patrick says, grabbing Bob lightly at the elbow and pulling him to the side, against the lockers. "How're you doing? All your body parts intact?" He glances at Bob's bandaged hands.

Bob snorts. "I'll live. How's your head?"

"I feel brand new and shiny," Patrick says, smiling and rubbing the lump on the back of his head. "Hey, so, uh. You probably had a pretty good view of Greta and I, you know, yesterday. Sorry for doing that right in front of you guys, man, it was all kind of--sudden."

Bob arches an eyebrow and smirks. "Yeah, I get it. No need to apologize." 

Patrick licks his lips. "Right. I'm also sorry about, you know. All that shit I said."

Bob gives him one of his weird half-smiles. "We all get angry. It's fine. I get it."

"I don't really think--"

"I get it," Bob says, in a gentle voice that clearly says the conversation is over.

Patrick smiles and squeezes Bob's elbow before letting go. "Thanks. I--thanks."

"Are you and Greta....?" Bob raises his eyebrows again and lets the sentence hang, lets Patrick interpret it however he wants. Patrick knows just how red he's turning right now.

"No. I mean--that was the first time we'd--we're friends, it was just a. It was a _thing,_ we haven't even--"

"Don't sprain yourself," and now Bob is definitely laughing at him. "It's none of my business. Just, heh--" Bob's smile turns wicked. "--check the age of consent in Jersey? I *think* it's sixteen, but--"

Bob ducks Patrick's punch to his arm and backs away down the hall, still chuckling. Patrick rubs at his forehead. "Could you at least keep it quiet?" he calls after him, and Bob nods, grinning at Patrick over his shoulder. 

He finds Greta in the principal's office, the room they've loosely converted into a hospital room for the injured. Butcher is there, too, giving Patrick a lewd and chipper wink as soon as Patrick enters the room. Patrick thinks that, really, Butcher's neck is pretty much healed, he shouldn't even _be_ here.

Greta smiles at him, and Patrick can see the bulk of the bandages over the wound on her side under her shirt. "Hi, you."

She's already talking to him like they're--god, like they're a couple. Patrick feels something in his stomach twist. "Hi." She moves her arm like she was thinking of reaching out, and Patrick watches his traitorous hand move forward to catch her fingers, his thumb brushing over the tops of her knuckles.

"You guys okay?" Patrick figures it's polite to include Butcher in his question; he doesn't want Butcher to be not-okay, after all, but Butcher snorts loudly like he knows exactly what/who Patrick is actually concerned about.

"I should be all healed up any day now, thanks for the thought! I know you must be driving yourself crazy worrying about my little bite," Butcher says cheerfully, and dammit. Dammit, Patrick's blushing again.

"I got _shot,_ " Greta says with dignity, looking down her nose at Butcher. "And I'm a lady. I think I warrant a little more concern, thanks."

"Hey, don't let my presence keep you guys from showing your concern. In fact, I'll just take my presence elsewhere." Greta sticks out her tongue at Butcher as he leaves, still smirking.

Patrick clears her throat. "Um. So, yeah. I did kind of need to talk to you."

"I figured. Sit." Greta tugs on his hand and pushes herself up until she's sitting in bed, and Patrick pulls up a chair beside her.

"What happened yesterday was--" Patrick stops, closes his mouth, tries to figure out exactly how to say this. 

"Sudden?" Greta's voice is light, but her hand is squeezing his and she's not meeting his eyes. "Surprising? Intense?"

"All of the above, I think," Patrick says. She doesn't make him feel older or more mature, or young again; it's not like he's drawn to her *because* she's seventeen. Mostly, she makes him feel like he wants to keep holding her hand.

"You're seventeen, I'm twenty-three," he says, to remind both of them.

Greta blinks, and then gives him an incredulous look. "Wait. Wait, _that's_ what you're all jumpy about? Are you kidding?"

Patrick frowns. "It might not seem like much to you, but that's a pretty big age difference. You're still in high school!"

"No, I'm not, I'm _living_ in a high school and recovering from a bullet wound." Her voice comes out harsher than he's ever heard it, and she pulls her hand away. "Give me a fucking break, Patrick. Both of us are risking our lives every damn day and you're trying to pretend like age differences still matter?"

Patrick tilts his head. "How many boyfriends have you had?"

Greta flushes. "I was too busy with music to deal much with boys, before."

"So that's none?"

"Screw you." Greta pushes her hair back behind her ears, and Patrick remembers how the vampire had grabbed her by it, dragged her by it over the ground. "What does it even matter? You like me, I like you."

He does like her, he likes her a lot, but he can't just--he's not going to be like Pete, flailing into things that are horrible for both parties involved with his eyes deliberately shut. "It matters. It's not just experience, it's--I have five years more baggage than you, I have--this is just. It's not a good idea."

Greta laughs and puts her head in her hands, rubbing the heels of her palms against her eyes before she looks up at him again. "You realize that you and I escaped a death trap yesterday? That my best friend got killed right in front of me the day I met you?" She swings her legs around and kneels on the bed, facing him and taking both his hands. Her eyes are shining, just a little bit. "Yeah, normally I wouldn't want to do anything with someone five years older than me, but do you get how far away we are from normal? None of that stuff matters right now. None of it."

Patrick's fingers clench involuntarily around her wrist. "It matters," he insists still, but it sounds hollow even to him, and he doesn't pull back when Greta leans in to kiss him. And maybe it doesn't, maybe he should just accept that morals don't have a place in his life anymore.

She makes a triumphant sound against his mouth and throws her arms around him, all teenaged eagerness. Patrick hugs her back and kisses her again and again, pulling back enough to say, "Look--look. I'm still--I'm not going to rush into this, okay? I'm just--that's not _me._ Let's not make this into something it isn't."

"No hearts and flowers yet?" Greta smirks at him. "That's fine. I'll just follow your lead--remember how I've never done this before?" She laughs when Patrick cringes and groans. 

***

They decide to not tell anyone for now, to just keep it on the down-low until they're sure where they stand. Greta makes sure that Butcher won't tell anyone, and Patrick knows Bob is good on his word. They both want a while to figure this out by themselves without anyone else interfering.

Later that night Pete walks into Patrick's room and says, "So, high schoolers, huh?"

Patrick gapes. "How did you find out?"

Pete is already pacing the room. "She's pretty cute, I guess. Is she a junior or a senior? I heard from Darren that she's a junior, just old for her grade."

"She missed her last year of school because of all the vampires," Patrick says. "Pete, seriously, what the fuck? How did you even--?"

"Doesn't matter," Pete says, waving a hand, dismissive. "I didn't know you liked 'em young. Or all blonde and nubile, for that matter--"

"Stop it," Patrick says, angry. If Pete's goading him to see whether Patrick likes her enough to get pissed on her behalf, well, Patrick fucking does.

Pete stops pacing and stares at Patrick. "It just seems kind of weird," he says after a moment. "Out of the blue. She doesn't seem like your type."

Patrick rolls his eyes. "I don't think I even have a type, come on."

Pete folds his arms across his chest. "Are you sure it's a good idea?"

Patrick stares, then laughs. "Oh my god, I'm not even going to--glass houses, Pete! For fuck's sake!"

Pete just looks away, his body language hunched and defensive, and Patrick realizes belatedly that he shouldn't have laughed. Pete is really bothered by this, and Patrick feels incredulous and annoyed that Pete thinks he has a right to be bothered, but. 

Patrick frowns. "Why are you upset about this?"

"Hey, it's your decision, whatever. I'm not upset." 

"You sound like a twelve-year-old. You gonna stamp your foot next or throw a tantrum?"

Pete uncrosses his arms and glares at Patrick from across the room, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. "Look, I just. I'm confused, okay? I didn't even know you liked her."

And that's the issue right there, even though Pete and Patrick haven't told each other everything since Pete was first turned, even though Pete has his own secrets. Patrick feels something bitter at the back of his mouth and wishes that Patrick not letting Pete in on a crush he had were the least of the problems between them. "Well. I didn't really know myself, not until, you know. Heat of the fight and all that."

"Right. Yeah." Pete looks up at the ceiling and then down at the floor and then at Patrick. "You sure you know what you're doing?"

"No. We're still kind of figuring it out." Patrick feels a smile spread across his face and knows he looks goofy. "I'm not sure at all."

Pete snorts, and he doesn't have to say that Patrick sounds like him: Patrick knows. He gets the irony. 

"She's a nice girl, okay?" Patrick says. "Considering the circumstances, it's not too crazy that we'd get together. We just, we like each other, okay?"

"Now you sound twelve," Pete mutters.

Patrick rolls his eyes. "Just don't worry about me."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Pete retorts. "And, uh. Sorry for being rude about her earlier, you know."

Patrick shakes his fist and gives Pete the stink-eye, and Pete smiles abashed and rueful. "Just as long as you know you were being a jackass, I guess."

"Noted." Pete salutes, and Patrick kind of wants to hug him, but Pete's body language is all wrong--now's not the time. Patrick tries to put it into his smile instead, and Pete gives him the same smile back before leaving the room.

It feels like there's something else there, something Pete's not telling him. But for once Patrick doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to spend his time trying to puzzle out Pete's mood and feelings, or think about how much Pete woke up hating himself this morning, or worry about whether he had his not!blood smoothie this today, or whether things are okay with him and his alcoholic boyfriend. He wants--he wants to find Greta, make out with her, fall asleep together maybe.

He leaves his room shortly after Pete to go find her. He knows every worry will come rushing back as soon as he's alone again, so--so. He's not going to make himself stay alone.


End file.
